The dance had been buzzing since the moment you stepped into the gym—music thumping, colored lights spinning over the crowd, glitter catching in the air like dust. It was one of those nights that seemed designed for distraction, a blur of laughter and too-sweet punch, couples pressed too close on the floor while the rest lingered at the edges pretending not to watch.

You’d been pulled into the chaos early, orbiting between Betty, Kevin, and Veronica as they fussed with their hair, their dresses, their dates. And, of course, Veronica had been her usual self: bold, teasing, armed with the kind of confidence no one else could quite keep up with.

It had started as a joke, something tossed off with a smirk while the music swelled: “I bet Archie doesn’t even have the guts to kiss you before the night’s over.”

You’d rolled your eyes, cheeks heating, brushing it off as one of Veronica’s sharp little barbs. But what you didn’t know—what you couldn’t know—was that Archie had been close enough to hear her.

And all night, it changed him.

At first, you just noticed his eyes. The way they lingered when you caught him watching from across the room, that crooked almost-smile tugging at his lips before he looked away. Then it was the way he seemed to orbit nearer, even when he was supposed to be with Jughead, or Reggie, or caught in conversation with the team. Always half-turned toward you, like he couldn’t quite help himself.

It left you restless, jittery, slipping away from the dance floor when the pressure of Veronica’s joke and Archie’s stares made it hard to breathe. You ducked into the shadowed hallway just off the gym, where the music was still loud but muffled, your back pressed to the cool cinderblock wall as you tried to collect yourself.

That’s when he found you.

Archie stepped out from the crowd, shoulders squared like he’d been working himself up to this all night. His jacket was long gone, his tie hanging loose around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt undone. The colored glow from the gym lights spilled over his face, catching in the unruly strands of his hair and lighting the curve of his smile—soft, nervous, but determined in a way that made your heart stumble.

He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could hear his breath even under the muffled bass of the music. His eyes held yours for a beat too long, hazel-green in the shifting light, and when he spoke, his voice was low, meant only for you.

“Is it true?” he asked, that half-smile playing at his lips. “Do you really think I don’t have the guts?”